Month: November 2014

Hey you guys. You guys, I have been so sick, and I still am a little bit. But I feel good enough to run my mouth today, so here we go.

The weather here has been pretty nice the last few days, just a little chilly. (Somewhere in the Midwest someone is flipping me the bird right now. ) So since it isn’t raining, I make my kids bundle up and then kick them outside until they have mild hypothermia. Parenting, ladies and gentlemen!

Anyhoo, I was watching them play and it reminded me of things I used to be able to do effortlessly. “Oh, here she goes with her lists,” I can hear you thinking. Well, it was kind of rude for you to think that, but I’m going to present my list to you anyway.

1) Running. No, not jogging or running for exercise—which I don’t do—but an all-out-full-bore-sprint for no reason other than to run. The Destroyer runs everywhere. Everywhere. Full speed. And he’s got nowhere to be; I have no idea why he’s running. But if I wanted to sprint somewhere (you guys, I just stopped and busted up laughing after typing that, tears and all) I would really have to get ready to do it. First, I’d have to put on my sports bra that’s made of titanium alloy. Then I would have to psyche myself up. Then I would have to stretch. After that, I would have to talk myself out of going back in the house to lay down. Oh, and I’d have to make sure there was no one around within a ten mile radius. Okay, and your mark, get set, go! I did it! Now, I’m just going to lay face down in this grass twenty feet from my house…

2) Jumping. Every one of my kids likes to jump down the stairs. Like five of them at a time. I guess their femurs shooting up through their kneecaps and the ensuing patella ricochet isn’t a concern for them. It is for me though, so if I ever have to jump down from somewhere, first I get my feet as close to the ground as humanly possible. Then I point my toes as hard as I can in order to get even closer to the ground. Then I use my arms to launch myself to wherever it was I was stupid enough to have to jump to get to. I try really hard to make sure that my ankles and knees are bent when I land so that I don’t collapse into a heap of two immediately broken ankles. Jumping down one stair is not for me.

3) Pull-ups. The Destroyer was doing pull-ups for fun. I haven’t done pull-ups in years. Just kidding! I’ve only ever done one pull-up in my life, and I’m pretty sure I was drunk.

4) Falling. The Destroyer was playing basketball with one of his friends in front of the house. On the street. And he dove for the ball. He fell, of course, but then popped right back up and continued dribbling. I remember doing that all the time. Just popping with a skinned knee or something and going on about my business. People, I am so for real when I say that, now, to me, falling down is devastating. It always happens in slow motion, I can never stop myself, and it seems like it’s always really loud. Like a couple of weeks ago, I fell after misjudging a stair—in my own house, a stair that I have gone down only a million times—and when I landed it sounded something like PLAP! It was horrible. I had to lay there in a pile of embarrassed Mom for a minute so I could recover. Was anything hurt? Well, my feelings. And my pride. I have no dignity left, so that wasn’t an issue.

Like this. Except nobody cared so I just had to lay on the floor.

So, while I’m sure every last one of you is in better shape than I am, (I’m obviously a walking disaster) what are somethings you used to be able to do easily? By the way, if you say pull-ups, I’m going to call you a liar.

Football season is halfway over, so I have been spending a lot of time in front of the TV. Which means I sit through a lot of commercials. Being the bored genius that I am, I have come up with new ad campaigns for various companies. Wanna hear them? Of course you do.

McDonalds: No, really, we’re not trying to kill you. See? Natural ingredients and such—like our fries are all made of votatoes and our burgers are 100% meef.

Burger King: We ARE trying to kill you. Triple Whopper, anyone?

Carl’s Junior: We’re trying to kill you even harder. Which is why we don’t let any of the models actually swallow the food.

Taco Bell: We’re just making up stuff at this point, and you’re eating here so you obviously don’t care.

Jack-in-the-Box: Fast food for Stoners.

Audi: Just kidding! You can’t afford this car!

Target: We can jazz it up all we want, it’s still Target. (BTW, I love Target. I really do.)

Toyota: Come be smug with us!

Viagra: Feel uncomfortable yet?

Arby’s: Please eat here! Please?

CVS: We’re so health conscious, we don’t sell cigarettes. But you can totally buy Twinkies.

Verizon: Now with more ways to avoid human to human interaction!

Budweiser: Have some of these. Now everyone’s attractive!

Now everyone looks like this!

Kia: We’re going to run this hamster thing into the ground.

NFL “No More” Campaign: How about some too little, too late?

Ford Trucks: We think you’re an idiot, now buy this truck.

Panera: You could make a sandwich at home… or you can pay fifteen bucks for one of ours.

NOTE: I am usually a bag of hilarity and giggles. I will be again next post, I promise.

First let me get this off my chest. So my guilty pleasure is gossip blogs. I love being in people’s business who don’t know who care about me in anyway. Shrug.

But I have a gripe. I have noticed a wave of breakups in he rapper/athlete community, and the men involved in these breakups seem to have a recurring theme: You can’t turn a ho into a housewife. This really burns me. Here’s why:

You met her at the strip club. Where she was working. Taking her clothes off for a living. This is woman who uses her body in exchange for money—in some cases, lots of money. I’m no saying this to disparage the stripping profession; it’s a living. Some of the nicest girls I ever met in my twenties were exotic dancers. My point is, if she was using her body to make money when you met; why did you all of a sudden expect her to cease and desist? She’s still stripping—you just happen to be her exclusive audience. Oh, wait, you found out she’s entertaining other men? Men with more money than you? Surprise! Being a kept stripper is like any other job, if you find a more lucrative position doing the same thing, you’re going to move on from the company you’re with. Why did you think it would change, rappers?

It would be different had you met your significant other and she was doing ANYTHING ELSE. When you meet someone while they are naked and booty-clapping while doing the splits on top of a pile of greenbacks, are you thinking “Hmm, I bet she makes a mean meatloaf and can set a beautiful table”? No. No you are not. You are thinking exactly what you are supposed to be thinking about at the time, so at what point do the dynamics change? After you’ve fulfilled all your little fantasies? “Yeah, boo, I love when we use those furry pink handcuffs. Are you going to make eggs and pick up the dry-cleaning? Oh, and I was thinking roast chicken and fingerling potatoes for dinner.” She wasn’t doing any of that when you met. Or even after you met when you were trying to impress her and taking her out every night.

This is what happens when you choose a person based solely on the packaging. Not that I’m suggesting you date Grungetta. I am suggesting that you look for substance. You want a woman that is smart, sexy, and confident, right? There are places that have women like that in spades—they’re called colleges and universities. New York, D.C., Atlanta, etc are chock full of them. But you went to the strip club. Not that those women aren’t smart, they’re obviously sexy and definitely confident. But there is admittedly a difference between someone who wears pasties at work and someone who is at Columbia Law School, getting their MFA in creative writing, or becoming a certified medical assistant. (And if you dare cite Player’s club to me where she strips to pay for school, I will have you escorted out by security.)

To be fair, Grundgetta looks like fun though, doesn’t she?

Stop acting like she’s supposed to be eternally grateful to you for “taking her out the strip club”. Is she supposed to worship you now? That’s demeaning, and it makes it painfully clear what you think of her. Why should she become all things to you when you clearly don’t respect her and you act like your relationship is a debt she owes you? And when she, as a human being, decides that’s not good enough, that she wants to be your equal or she wants out, you want to be bitter. Stop it, professional athletes.

To piggyback off #3—stripping is a selfish occupation. No one becomes a stripper because they want to make a difference in the world (“this to help eradicate impotence!”). They need the money. Period. Everything else—the costumes, the body parts, the pretense that you’re funny or charming–is just an illusion designed to get said coinage. So there are pretty good odds that she’s a selfish person. Get it together, rappers.

Okay, that’s enough for today. I just wanted to say that. Now back to your regularly scheduled programming.